If it says end-rhymes they all ought to bloody rhyme, Lear or no Lear. Oh well! Still, thanks Jayne. I have an idea.
And here it is:
What He Did
He sold his soul to the Devil he did,
And he said to his Sins, 'Come in!'
And his seven Sins, on their shaggy feet,
With their goatee beards brushed clean and neat,
All danced on the point of a pin.
With a fat cigar and a whisky jar,
Each peach of a Sin sang out, 'We are
The Hounds of Hell and our fangs are long.
We bite by night and our Right is Wrong
And we keep your soul in a spin!'
His Angels, alas, who were far and few,
Just whispered, 'Sinner, unfit to live,
You're as certain to burn as the sky is blue,
Or as sand runs out through a sieve.'
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